


drinking tea with comberry while the world ends

by mphaal



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Gen, Mini Fic, implied suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mphaal/pseuds/mphaal
Summary: You're tired.  Your feet hurt.





	

You were a glorious invisible warrior-poet, the champion of Morrowind, beautiful and glorious in your terror. You could right every wrong, win every battle, seduce and terrorize with just a smile, and all the world -at least, all the world that mattered- loved and feared you. You were a _god_.

But you’re getting old now. Getting slow. There’s an absence like an ache in your bones in the morning. Your joints don’t creak when you get up after kneeling in meditation for days on end, your face has no wrinkles except when you will it, but there’s something in you that says that it ought to be like that instead of this permanence. Your veins used to run with fury and joy that burned so bright that you couldn’t even differentiate the two, as if there was ever really any difference between the two at all, but all you can feel now is the drive to win.

It’s stubbornness that keeps you together these days, that hones your blades and words. You derive no joy from putting the Incarnate through these trials but you do it because you’ve come this far and you might as well see this thing through. You might as well win.

You’ve known for a long time that you’re waning. You might have been invincible once but right now, right here at the end, you’ve faded.

It’s almost a relief when your last remaining ties to the Heart are severed. There’s a certain freedom in it. It’s fascinating for a moment when mortal aches and pains settle into your frame but only for a moment. You’re _tired_. Your feet hurt.

You spend your remaining days in isolation because you might as well. You’ve spent your days _before_ in isolation, and now, there is nothing left for you here. Your brother and your sister are dead. There’s a bitterness in her betrayal that tastes like old smoke but you can’t begrudge her for her acts of desperation. At least her heart could still blaze at the end. Yours is made of cinders gone cold.

The air is cool on your skin as you sit on top of the temple and wait for the moon to fall. It might as well be now. It’s as good as any place to stop.

But even if you’ve grown old and tired, you are a story-spinner to the end and your conclusion is going to be devastating and red.


End file.
